Jo Nesbo - The Leopard

‘True,’ the chief passport official said, pulling at his beret. ‘Airline staff only make sure the name and photo match more or less. For that purpose you can have a false passport made for fifty dollars anywhere in the world. It’s only when you get off the plane at your final destination and have to go through checks that your passport number is matched and false passports are revealed. But the question is the same: why should we help you, Mr Hole? Are you on an official mission here and have you got the papers to support that?’

‘My official mission was in the Congo,’ Harry lied. ‘But I found nothing there. Adele Vetlesen is missing, and we fear she may have been murdered by a serial killer who has already murdered at least three other women, among them a government MP. Her name is Marit Olsen – you can verify that on the Net. I’m conscious that the procedure now is for me to return home and go through formal channels, as a result of which we will lose several days and give the killer a further head start. And time to kill again.’

Harry saw that his words had made some impression on them. The woman and the chief official conferred, and the woman marched off again.

They waited in silence.

Harry looked at his watch. He hadn’t checked in on the flight yet.

Six minutes had passed when they heard the click-clack heels coming closer.

‘Eva Rosenberg, Juliana Verni, Veronica Raul Gueno and Claire Hobbes.’ She spat out the names, straightened her glasses and put four landing cards on the table in front of Harry before the door slammed behind her. ‘Not many European women come here,’ she said.

Harry’s eyes ran down the cards. All of them had given Kigali hotels as their address, but not the Gorilla Hotel. He looked at their home addresses. Eva Rosenberg had given an address in Stockholm.

‘Thank you,’ Harry said, noting down the names, addresses and passport numbers on the back of a taxi receipt he found in his jacket pocket.

‘I regret that we can’t be of any more assistance,’ the woman said, pushing her glasses up again.

‘Not at all,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve been a great help. Really.’

‘And now, Mr Policeman,’ said the tall, thin officer, with a smile that lit up his black-as-night face.

‘Yes?’ Harry said in anticipation, ready to take out the coffee-brown envelope.

‘Now it’s time we got you checked in on the flight to Nairobi.’

‘Mm,’ Harry said, looking at his watch. ‘I may have to catch the next one.’

‘Next one?’

‘I have to go back to the Gorilla Hotel.’

Kaja was sitting in the Norwegian railway’s so-called ‘comfort coach’ which – apart from free newspapers, two cups of free coffee and a socket for your laptop – meant that you sat like sardines in a can instead of in the almost empty economy areas. So when her phone rang and she saw it was Harry, that was where she hurried.

‘Where are you?’ Harry asked.

‘On the train. Passing Kongsberg right this minute. And you?’

‘Gorilla Hotel in Kigali. I’ve had a look at Adele Vetlesen’s hotel registration card. I won’t get away now before the afternoon flight, but I’ll be home early tomorrow. Could you ring your friend, pumpkin head, at Drammen police station, and see if we can borrow the postcard Adele wrote? You can ask him to come to the station with it. The train stops at Drammen, doesn’t it?’

‘You’re pushing your luck. I’ll try anyway. What are we going to do with it?’

‘Compare the handwriting. There’s a handwriting expert called Jean Hue who worked at Kripos before he retired. Get him to the office for seven tomorrow.’

‘So early? D’you think he’ll-’

‘You’re right. I’ll scan Adele’s registration card and email it to you so you can go to Jean’s place with both this evening.’

‘This evening?’

‘He’ll be happy to see you. If you had any other plans, they are hereby cancelled.’

‘Great. By the way, sorry about the late call last night.’

‘No worries. Entertaining story.’

‘I was a bit tipsy.’

‘Thought so.’

Harry rang off.

‘Thanks for all your help,’ he said.

The receptionist responded with a smile.

The coffee-brown envelope had finally found a new owner.

Kjersti Rodsmoen went into the common room and over to the woman looking out of the window at the rain falling on Sandviken’s timber houses. In front of her was an untouched slice of cake with a little candle on.

‘This phone was found in your room, Katrine,’ she said softly. ‘The ward sister brought it to me. You know they’re forbidden, don’t you?’

Katrine nodded.

‘Anyway,’ Rodsmoen said, passing it over, ‘it’s ringing.’

Katrine Bratt took the vibrating mobile phone and pressed answer.

‘It’s me,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘I’ve got four women’s names here. I’d like to know which of them was not booked on flight RA101 to Kigali on the 25th of November. And to receive confirmation that this person was not in any booking system for a Rwandan hotel that same night.’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Auntie.’

Silence for a second.

‘I see. Ring when you can.’

Katrine passed the phone back to Rodsmoen. ‘My auntie wishing me many happy returns.’

Kjersti Rodsmoen shook her head. ‘Rules say the use of phones is forbidden. So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a phone, so long as you don’t use it. Just make sure the ward sister doesn’t see it, OK?’

Katrine nodded, and Rodsmoen left.

Katrine sat looking out of the window for a while, then got up and went towards the Hobbies Room. The ward sister’s voice reached her as she was about to cross the threshold.

‘What are you going to do, Katrine?’

Katrine answered without turning. ‘Play solitaire.’

Gunnar Hagen took the lift down to the basement.

Down. Downer. Downtrodden. Downsized.

He got out and set off through the culvert.

But Bellman had kept his promise, he hadn’t blabbed. And he had thrown him a line, a top-management post in the new, expanded Kripos. Harry’s report had been short and to the point. No results. Any idiot would have realised it was time to start swimming towards the lifebuoy.

Hagen opened the door at the end of the culvert without knocking.

Kaja Solness smiled sweetly while Harry Hole – sitting in front of the computer screen with a telephone to his ear – didn’t even turn round, just sang out ‘siddown-boss-want-some-crap-coffee?’ as though the unit head’s doppelganger had announced his forthcoming arrival.

Hagen stood in the doorway. ‘I received the message that you were unable to find Adele Vetlesen. Time to pack up. Time was up ages ago, and you’re needed for other cases. At least you are, Kaja Solness.’

‘Dankeschon, Gunther,’ Harry said on the telephone, put it down and swivelled round.

‘Dankeschon?’ Hagen repeated.

‘Leipzig Police,’ Harry said. ‘By the way, Katrine Bratt sends her regards, boss. Remember her?’

Hagen eyed his inspector with suspicion. ‘I thought Bratt was in a mental institution.’

‘No doubt about that,’ Harry said, getting up and making for the coffee machine. ‘But the woman’s a genius at searching the Net. Speaking of searches, boss…’

‘Searches?’

‘Could you see your way to giving us unlimited funds to mount a search?’

Hagen’s eyes almost popped out. Then he burst out laughing. ‘You’re bloody incredible, Harry, you are. You’ve just wasted half the travel budget on a fiasco in the Congo and now you want a police search operation? This investigation comes to a halt right now. Do you understand?’